


Not Shaking the Grass

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8538769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Arthur has a cold, they putter along, there are cuddles.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/gifts).



> All stories are Glim's because I'd never write anything if I didn't know she likes reading them.

Arthur leans over Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin can feel the morning paper in his hair, Arthur’s breath on his cheek. He lowers the field-glasses to glare up at Arthur, but Arthur’s looking out of the window, lips pouting and pressed together, eyes squinting. 

 

“It’s a Great Tit,” Arthur says, pulling away. 

 

“Like you, then,” Merlin says, adjusting the glasses to look at the birds again and then down at the book on his knee. 

 

Annoyingly, Arthur’s right. The bird Merlin was looking at is, according to the I Spy book, a Great Tit. 

 

“The rest are house sparrows, which I know you can identify,” Arthur explains, putting the kettle on. “My father ensured I could identify birds. Apparently a key skill to take over the business. Coffee or tea, this morning?”

 

And then he sniffs. Merlin knows those sniffs, especially when connected with last night’s snoring, and Arthur not wearing his contacts. He’s not wearing them because when he is he doesn’t squint at the birds that are on the patio, right outside the French windows. Arthur shakes a mug at Merlin, newspaper now tucked under his elbow. He’s the only person Merlin knows besides his mother and old Gaius who still gets actual paper newspapers. He switched from every morning to just the weekend, at least. That’s helped their paper recycling situation a lot. 

 

“Merlin! Head out of the clouds. Tea or coffee?” Arthur says, then he snaps his fingers in front of Merlin’s nose. Merlin raises an eyebrow, and Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Sorry. Bit aggressive.”

 

“Little bit. Tea, please, the green one with lemon that I got from Cardews.”

 

“Tea snob,” Arthur says, wandering back to the kettle. He pauses at the sink, turning into his shoulder to sneeze. “Oh! Bless me.”

 

Merlin nods significantly, which Arthur doesn’t see because he’s two metres away by the kettle and Merlin probably looks like a blob. He goes back to bird watching, searching the many house sparrows for more interesting ones. He comes across a squirrel, and then a duck. He sighs and puts the glasses away, getting off the stool to unlock the doors and step onto the patio, shooing the duck back toward the canal. Technically Arthur doesn’t mind the ducks, but he does mind them eating the frog spawn from the pond and he does mind them nesting there, which they’ve done previously. It’s a tiny pond, about two feet across. Big enough only for frogs, not ducks. So Merlin shoos the quackers away. 

 

“Tea, Merls, and you’re in your pants stop giving the neighbours things to laugh at,” Arthur calls. 

 

He sounds congested, now, and when Merlin steps back into the kitchen, warm and welcoming after the cold grey of outside, Arthur coughs a rough cough, plonking down heavily at the table. Merlin shuts and locks the door and goes to the living-room to get Arthur’s reading glasses for him. Arthur will only ask Merlin in a few minutes and pout until Merlin complies, so he might as well. 

 

“You should be nicer about my pants,” Merlin says, passing Arthur the glasses and sitting in front of his tea, breathing in the aromatic steam.

 

“Why?”

 

“I was getting rid of a duck.”

 

“Oh. Didn’t see that,” Arthur says. “Go on with the neighbours show, if there are ducks.”

 

His ‘n’s are congested. He sounds quite blurry in general, actually. Merlin frowns at him, wanting to check his forehead for fever. Arthur sniffs loudly, though, which is disgusting enough to banish Merlin’s softer thoughts and concentrate him on looking around for tissues. He sees only kitchen towel. Arthur would use it without a fuss, but Merlin goes and gets a box of proper tissues from the bathroom anyway. It’s downstairs, next to the kitchen, so it’s hardly a hardship. Arthur glares at the tissues, then at Merlin, then sniff-snorts into his coffee and ignores both Merlin and tissues. 

 

“Yes you are,” Merlin says. 

 

“I am not,” Arthur says. 

 

“Non sick people do not pronounce ‘not’ as ‘dot’.”

 

Arthur keeps his mouth shut, unable to defend against that one. He still gets ready to go rowing, though, ignoring Merlin’s disapproval. He at least wears full length thermal leggings and shorts and a jumper and a coat, and a scarf and gloves. Merlin is sure a lot of it will come off, but it’s enough for him to let Arthur out of the house. If he gets sicker and tries to go out tomorrow, though, Merlin will sit on him to stop him. Gentle violence decided upon, Merlin sits in the living-room and puts the TV on. Arthur’s got to cycle from where they are at the top of Jericho all the way down below Folly Bridge to the St John’s boathouse, so he’ll be a while. He’s rowing with Gwaine today, too, and Gwaine is slow, so he’ll be even longer. Which means Merlin can watch Lewis to his heart’s content, without Arthur badgering about ‘you can’t drive there’ and ‘that road doesn’t lead there’ and ‘wow teleporting from Exeter to Lincoln it’s a miracle! That’s Jesus’s fault, obviously. Two colleges that close to Jesus, there’s gotta be some miracles Merlin why aren’t you laughing that’s a really funny Jesus college joke’. 

 

Merlin falls asleep watching an episode with a really boring professor in it, and misses Arthur returning. When he wakes up it’s tipping it down with rain, and there’s classical music and quiet voices in the kitchen. Merlin wanders down the hall, yawning, and finds Arthur and Gwaine sat at the table with tea. Merlin sits and takes Gwaine’s mug for himself, getting his feet into Arthur’s slippers under the table. Gwaine’s brought his little tiny King Charles Spaniel, so Merlin scoops her up and rubs his cheek in her fur. He’s interrupted from his sleepy stealing of things by Arthur coughing into his shoulder. 

 

“He’s been doing that all morning,” Gwaine says. “It’s really annoying.”

 

“He has a cold,” Merlin says, nudging the tissue box, still on the table. 

 

Arthur concedes the field. Probably because his nose is running and if he doesn’t he’ll get snot on his jumper. Merlin tilts his head. No, on Gwaine’s jumper. 

 

“What happened to your hoody?” Merlin asks. Arthur flushes. Gwaine beams. 

 

“I fell in the river,” Arthur mutters. “I was shouting at someone.”

 

Merlin laughs, and Gwaine beams harder. Pinny steps from Merlin’s thigh to Gwaine’s, teeters, then topples into Gwaine’s lap instead. She doesn’t like loudness.

 

“To be fair he was shouting at a cyclist who nearly knocked a little kid into the river,” Gwaine says. “He was being a squishy.”

 

“You didn’t go rowing in wet clothes,” Merlin says, making it a statement, because if Arthur did there will be no Arthur left to have been rowing so he won’t have anyway. Merlin will destroy all. 

 

“Stop with your violent fantasies. I rowed in dry clothes,” Arthur says. 

 

“His spare thermals and my spare shorts and t-shirt, and that jumper,” Gwaine says. “And he wore the hat Perce knitted me.”

 

“It has pom poms and ear flaps,” Arthur says. “Gwaine took photos and sent them to everyone. Percy’s really happy that I liked the hat and is knitting me one.”

 

“You could just say no thank you,” Merlin says, taking off the slippers and pulling his knees up, heels on the edge of his chair. 

 

“You can’t say no to Percy,” Arthur says, glumly. “It just isn’t done. He’s too nice. He’d get upset, and he looks like Pinny begging when he’s upset. It’s like trying to say no to Pinny.”

 

“Luckily I can say no to both, or Pinny would be massive and Percy would be… actually, I can’t say no to Perce either,” Gwaine says. 

 

Arthur and Gwaine contemplate their inability to say no to their friend in gloomy silence, but it’s broken by the crescendo of whatever classical thing they’re listening to, and Gwaine laughs, claps his hands, and gets to his feet, Pinny in his arms. 

 

“I’d better go. I’m meeting Leon in Jericho at the wine bar there,” Gwaine says. 

 

“It’s barely twelve,” Arthur protests. 

 

“They have sofas, and good coffee,” Gwaine says. “Shut up. I am allowed to date your best friend without you freaking out at me.”

 

“Merlin’s my best friend,” Arthur grumbles. 

 

“Since?” Gwaine asks. 

 

“Since Leon lost all sense and asked you out,” Arthur mutters, glaring at the table. 

 

Merlin laughs and walks Gwaine to the door, leaning in the hall and looking out at Hayfield road. Gwaine then points out that he is still in his underwear and is basically flashing everyone, so Merlin shuts the door on Gwaine’s laughter and goes back to the kitchen, snagging Arthur’s glasses case on the way. Arthur’s rubbing at his eyes, thumbs pressing in, pressing against the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Glasses,” Merlin says, putting them on the table in front of Arthur. “Tea?”

 

“No more tea I will piss a river as is,” Arthur says. “Are you trying to check my kidney function or something?”

 

“Toastie?” Merlin offers instead, calmly carrying on with his tea preparations.  _ He  _ wants tea, anyway. 

 

“Not hungry,” Arthur says. 

 

Merlin turns, another stomach fizzing moment of softness making him want to go rub Arthur’s scalp and temples, cradle him close. Arthur’d never allow it, probably wouldn’t even like it. Stubborn canary. Merlin turns abruptly, and wraps the tea towel around the kettle, holding it while the kettle boils then folding it and walking over to put it over Arthur’s eyes. 

 

“Oh, hot,” Arthur says, taking the cloth and leaning into it with a blissful sigh. “Nice.”

 

“That is a sinus headache,” Merlin says. “You get them when you have a cold. Or allergies I guess but you have no allergies.”

 

“Fine I have a cold. I don’t care, I like this,” Arthur says, throwing dignity to the wind in the face of hot towels. 

 

Merlin smiles, leaning on the counter to watch Arthur, to look at the line of his back, his shoulders, his hips. Merlin so badly wants to touch. He crosses his arms to stop himself, and finishes up his tea, and starts on his toasted cheese sandwich. He heats a thing of Covent Garden soup from the fridge, too, to try and entice Arthur to eat. They’ve got gazpacho soup from Branca in there, too, he notices. It’s the best gazpacho soup Merlin’s ever had, and he’s tempted. If he eats that, though, Arthur won’t eat the hot. He makes the carrot and corriander instead and Arthur eats most of Merlin’s bowl. Merlin dips his toastie in a few times, but Arthur gets most of it. 

 

“What are your plans this afternoon?” Arthur says. “More dozing in front of the telly?”

 

“I was going to the UPP on Cowley road, with Gwen. We were going to G&Ds for ice cream after,” Merlin says. 

 

“Is it a Universal or an Ultimate Picture Palace?” Arthur wonders, idly, leaning back in his chair and looking past Merlin at the garden. “The duck’s back.”

 

“Ultimate. I’m not going after it,” Merlin says. “It can eat your frogs. It’s bucketing it down.”

 

“Poor wet Gwaine. Maybe it will ruin his date,” Arthur says, with some relish. “I assume the rain is the why of ‘was’?”

 

“Yes,” Merlin says. “I’m a Gremlin. Don’t get me wet.”

 

“I’ll drive you. What are you watching?”

 

“Pulp Fiction. You sure? You’re-”

 

“Not sick,” Arthur says, sniffing, then coughing a bit. “Um. Barely sick.”

 

Merlin accepts that. He also accepts the lift, because he wants to see Gwen, and he wants to watch Pulp Fiction, and he wants ice cream. Arthur likes Pulp Fiction, so he’s happy, and Merlin and Gwen can whisper together about the film as they watch it without annoying Arthur, because Arthur’s too used to them: he knows that getting annoyed will only get them cross with him. Merlin glances over at him, now and then, on the other side of Gwen sprawled in the seat. The light from the screen reflects in his glasses, hiding his eyes. His mouth’s expressive, too, though. His smiles and frowns and twitching amusement, and then his outright laughter. He has a coughing fit half way through that has him tense and embarrassed for a while, hunched instead of sprawled, not looking up. Merlin would reach over Gwen to rub his shoulder, but that’ll just startle and annoy him and make him tenser. He rubs Gwen’s back instead and she smiles understandingly at him, then pokes him in mockery. 

 

“Do you want to skip G&Ds and just head home?” Gwen asks Arthur, at the end, when Arthur stays sat in his seat. 

 

“He watches the credits,” Merlin says, gathering his shoes and coat and bag and water bottle and trying to put himself back together. 

 

He and Gwen gossip for a while, waiting on Arthur. He gets up eventually, abandoning the credits, and they wander out into the evening. It’s freezing, and still raining. The wind blows it at them. Gwen grabs Merlin’s hand and runs, laughing, halting for the traffic then sprinting between two busses, getting them yelled at by a cyclist for their death dash. Arthur waits until it’s safe so they abandon him and hustle into the cafe. It’s steamed up entirely, windows opaque. It’s warm inside, full of chatter, and busy. Gwen goes to get them the sofa in the back and Merlin queues. Arthur joins him as he reaches the front, and pays, changing his order from his usual coffee to a lapsang souchong tea they call smokey caravan, a name which gives Merlin a twinge of discomfort that he can’t quite place. It’s not appropriation or commodification of culture. Or maybe it’s both. Or something quite different. 

 

“Merlin, brains in the room,” Arthur says, poking Merlin. 

 

Merlin gathers Gwen’s tea and his brownie sundae and follows Arthur to the sofa, where Arthur’s got both their tea. Merlin and Gwen gossip about Leon and Gwaine, and Morgana and her latest. A man this time, by the name of Aglain. Gwen thinks he’s lovely. Merlin’s a bit wary, he’s older and a bit weird. When Merlin glances to the side, he sees Arthur has melted into the sofa, glasses slid almost off. He looks like he’s having trouble staying awake. 

 

“I should let you get home,” Gwen says. 

 

“Arth, nap,” Merlin orders, resting a hand on Arthur’s chest. “He can sleep for twenty minutes, it’ll be better.”

 

Arthur does as he’s told. Actually, he drifts off as if he’d been waiting for Merlin’s permission. He doesn’t complain about Merlin touching him, either. Merlin had done it absently, and expected Arthur to ask him not to, but here he is, hand still resting on Arthur’s chest. Merlin zones out gazing at Arthur for a moment, and Gwen has to clap her hands to get him back on topic. She shifts from Morgana to Elyan, who’s writing a PhD at St John’s like Arthur and so is in Oxford and bugging the shit out of her. Currently she’s annoyed by his girlfriend, a slight woman with not much to her. 

 

“It’s just casual,” Merlin says. “He’s not going to marry her or anything.”

 

“Still,” Gwen grumbles. 

 

“Alright. Carry on, I’ll stop being reasonable.”

 

“Thank you,” Gwen says, and carries on gleefully roasting the poor woman. 

 

Neither of them can remember her name, which Merlin finds hysterically funny. He flops back against the sofa, and takes advantage of Arthur being asleep to brush the hair off his forehead, feel for fever, press a kiss to his temple, and generally let the gentle soft feelings have their way. Gwen snaps him back to the present by clearing her throat, which Arthur echoes with a soft cough. Arthur wakes up after twenty five minutes, one of those people who can actually nap and don’t just sleep forever. Merlin calls him sleeping beauty anyway, which gets him a glower. Arthur’s too snotty and congested to do much else though. 

 

They spend the evening Merlin curled in the armchair, Arthur spread over the sofa, the TV on. Merlin makes more soup and baked potatoes. Arthur eats the soup, but not the potatoes. He doesn’t sit up to let Merlin snuggle, which he sometimes does in the evenings. When they go to bed he doesn’t seem inclined to cuddling, either. He just gets under his duvet, sleep-mask over his face, and dozes off. Merlin huddles under the big kingsize duvet he has for when Arthur deigns to share, and listens to Arthur coughing and snoring.

 

///

 

Merlin leaves Arthur in bed, the next morning. He has a shower, picks up Arthur’s papers, and then sits in the kitchen. With the French windows, and because of the way it faces, it gets all the light. It’s nice to sit in the sunshine without the cold of outside. Merlin fiddles with the thermostat so the heating will stay on past its set time, and makes himself a coffee, and listens to the radio. It’s peaceful, until about ten. Arthur comes thudding slowly down the stairs, and then a bit later appears in the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around him, red eyed and nosed, looking all bleary and sleepy. He has pillow creases on his cheek. 

 

“Why are you up?” Merlin asks, as Arthur shuffles over and sits in the rocking chair. 

 

“Can I get a coffee?” Arthur asks, ignoring Merlin’s question. His voice is a whisper. 

 

“Tea? The nice lemon-y one, I can dump a load of honey in it,” Merlin says. “Or there’s Lemsip.”

 

Arthur makes a face, and Merlin goes to get the lemon tea. Personally, he can’t really see the point of ruining good tea with sweetness, especially when Arthur’s probably so congested he won’t taste it. Besides which Lemsip is medicine. Arthur won’t drink Lemsip, though, so he gets the green tea. Merlin gets him paracetamol and a decongestant too, from the bathroom cabinet. Arthur gives the pills a dubious look, but takes them. Which means he’s feeling bad. He refuses medicine if he possibly can justify it. 

 

“I want to go back to sleep,” Arthur grumbles, resting his head back on the rocker, looking balefully up at Merlin. 

 

Merlin takes the invitation to stroke Arthur’s hair off his forehead and cup his cheek, and when Arthur doesn’t protest, he rubs over his scalp. 

 

“Why did you get up?” Merlin asks. 

 

“Maybe I could sleep in the living-room, while you potter,” Arthur whispers, cheeks flushing more than they already were. 

 

“Oh, you want to be close?” Merlin asks, pleased.

 

Arthur just blushes some more and grumbles about how wrong Merlin is. Merlin doesn’t pay much heed to that, but he does stop with the words. Arthur has told that it’s the words that make him uncomfortable. Arthur has asked Merlin outright for cuddles and now Merlin is to never ever mention it. That, anyway, is what Arthur considers asking outright. Merlin speaks Arthuresse, so it counts. Merlin gets a tray and gathers their drinks, the books he’s half-reading, the newspaper, his phone, and the yoghurt he’s having for a warm up to breakfast. Sunday is a breakfast day, but Merlin isn’t a breakfast person, so he has a warm up and then eats a proper breakfast later. Lastly he gathers up Arthur and nudges and shuffles them through to the living-room. Arthur sinks into the sofa in a slightly alarming manner, looking almost like he’s fainting. Merlin puts it down to Arthur’s dramatics, but does crouch to check once Arthur’s situated. 

 

“Stop fussing at me,” Arthur says, muffled and hoarse, face buried in the ‘Frozen’ cushion Leon gave him as a joke. 

 

Merlin pulls the heavy duty blanket off the back of the sofa and tucks it around Arthur, then settles with his book and breakfast warm up. After ten minutes of Arthur’s frankly disgusting snorts and snuffles, Merlin puts the TV on and finds a music station, then settles back in. Arthur just makes himself louder, coughing and moaning and grumbling. Merlin sets his book down slowly and looks over. Arthur’s got one eye open and on Merlin, a calculating look on his face. Merlin raises his eyebrows and Arthur’s eyes snap closed. 

 

“Can I sit on the sofa?” Merlin asks, playing a hunch. 

 

“If you must,” Arthur says voice petering out, perking up a bit and struggling to sitting. 

 

Merlin shifts over with his coffee and book, and Arthur, with a satisfied sound, flumps into Merlin’s lap. His arms wrap around Merlin’s waist, and his face presses into Merlin’s stomach. Merlin looks down at him, then stifles his amusement and goes about pretending that Arthur isn’t a cuddle monster. 

 

“I can hear you thinking,” Arthur says, slow and soft and sleepy with content. “I still don’t like cuddles.”

 

“I know,” Merlin says, putting his book aside to stroke Arthur’s hair. “It’s okay, I understand. You can like cuddles and still not want me to cuddle you for the majority of time.”

 

“Exactly. I can do that,” Arthur says smugly, snuggling in closer, curling up with the blankets. 

 

“Do you want me to read this to you?” Merlin asks. Arthur makes an interested noise, so Merlin turns the TV off. “It’s the second Rivers of London book. If I read it to you, you have to promise me you won’t tell me the ending.”

 

Arthur nods obediently, then grumbles about his throat hurting anyway. Merlin tucks the blankets in closer around him and rests a hand on his forehead, scritching into his hair. He reads quietly. Arthur interrupts to cough now and then. It’s rough enough that Merlin pauses reading after a while, urging Arthur to sit up, shifting about until he’s leaning on the end and Arthur can lie more upright, against Merlin’s chest, between his thighs. Arthur wriggles until he can press his face into the juncture of Merlin’s neck at his shoulder, and sighs. 

 

“How are you feeling?” Merlin asks. 

 

Arthur nudges the book with his elbow, so Merlin starts reading again without an answer. He sort of has one anyway. He can feel Arthur’s breath, the way it’s uneven with coughs and congestion, and can feel the heat of Arthur’s skin, and can hear him sniffing. Merlin stops again to ask if he wants tissues. 

 

“You’ll get up,” Arthur says, sounding small and plaintive. And really really snotty. 

 

“Yeah, but I’ll come back, and you can get rid of some of the snot,” Merlin says. “I can get you a hot water bottle, top up your tea, and gather supplies so we can camp out here. I need to pee anyway, so I’ll be getting up whatever.”

 

“Can hold it in,” Arthur says. 

 

He sits up to let Merlin go, though, slumping sideways against the sofa cushions in a truly pathetic manner. Merlin indulges him, leaning to press a kiss to his cheek, rubbing his back, shushing him. He’s really pale, cheeks a hectic pink, he gazes up at Merlin with blurry neediness. Merlin hurries away before he can give in to Arthur’s ridiculous request to just not piss. He gets a thermometer and some cold and flu pills he finds, which seem to be painkiller and decongestant. He also finds a packet of throat sweets. For himself he gets very unhealthy snacks and a packet of broich rolls. He plans on eating every single roll. That’ll be the healthy part of the day. 

 

“You eat like a cretin,” Arthur snaps, when Merin dumps his haul onto the coffee table. It makes Arthur’s voice crack and he coughs for ages afterwards, which serves him right. 

 

“Just because you’re ill and cross doesn’t mean you can be horrible,” Merlin says, stuffing the thermometer into Arthur’s mouth when he opens it to answer. Arthur glowers balefully at him until it beeps, but Merlin brushes the hair off his forehead and Arthur slumps, eyes sliding shut. “You have a fever. You can never just have a nice simple snotty nose, can you? You always get ill and then go rowing and jump in rivers.”

 

“That is hardly a habit,” Arthur says, with a wince that tells Merlin his throat is definitely sore. 

 

Merlin gives him the cold and flu pills and a throat lozenge, and then tucks himself and the hot water bottle in behind Arthur. Arthur deflates and tucks himself close again, turning his head to press against Merlin’s neck. Merlin wraps the blankets back around them, pressing a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head. 

 

“I hate cuddling,” Arthur whispers, voice fading out again. 

 

“I know,” Merlin assures again. “I know. You initiate, I accept when you say no, I can ask but you mostly won’t want to.”

 

“You like it,” Arthur says. 

 

“I do. I get plenty of cuddling, from you and Gwen and the others. And you give me plenty of other things, and let me know loads of ways how you feel about me. It’s absolutely fine. And look, here we are snuggling.”

 

“Feel better with you close,” Arthur says so quietly Merlin has to strain to hear it.

 

“Good. Then I’ll stay close. Now rest, you’re worn out. No more jumping in-”

 

Arthur lets loose a rather large sneeze that Merlin holds is at least half on purpose. It seems to make his throat and head ache, which is punishment enough, so Merlin fusses over him and pets him and goes back to reading quietly. Arthur interrupts after a few seconds to ask for tissues, and Merlin ends up helping him sit straighter to have a coughing and sneezing fit at the same time. It leaves him breathless and gaping, limp against Merlin’s chest.

 

“Alright?” Merlin asks, petting Arthur’s hair. 

 

“Just a cold,  _ Mer _ lin.”

 

It is just a cold, too. If Merlin wasn’t feeling fussy, and Arthur wasn’t feeling cuddly, and it wasn’t Sunday which indulges such things, they’d probably have a day pretty much like yesterday. Arthur would probably go to work like this, though Merlin would try and stop him. Even his fever is fairly low. Arthur, though, always looks so tired anyway, and he works too hard, and Merlin loves him, and he’s so pale and worn out. 

 

“It’s a terrible cold,” Merlin says. “One that has you feeling like crap, don’t deny it. So are you alright, after your nose and chest decided to rebel at the same time?”

 

“I’m okay,” Arthur whispers.

 

“Good. Then I’ll read, and you’ll rest, and I’ll stroke your hair, and you’ll snuggle into the blankets with that hotty, and I’ll… I’ll just snuggle you okay?”

 

Arthur nods obediently, heavy against Merlin’s body. Merlin rests his cheek on the top of Arthur’s head and wraps an arm around the bundle of Arthur and blankets, and reads a few pages, pausing to let Arthur cough and sneeze. He pauses then to check Arthur’s warm enough and doesn’t want his tea or a sleepmask, as his eyes look sore and swallowing seems to hurt. Arthur grumbles about Merlin leaving him again, so Merlin fishes the sleepmask out of the pile of stuff and points to the tea. Arthur accepts the mask, but wants a lozenge instead of tea. Merlin reads again. Arthur starts to fall asleep, Merlin can tell by the heaviness of his body and his breathing. 

 

“Arthur, spit that sweet out or you’ll choke on it,” Merlin murmurs, offering Arthur a tissue. 

 

Arthur gives up the sweet without a fuss, and Merlin reads until Arthur’s under. He keeps on going, the book holding his attention for another five minutes. Then he puts it aside and focuses on Arthur, on fussing over him and petting him and watching over him. He puts the TV on softly in the background, but only for show. All his attention stays on Arthur. The weight and warmth and closeness of him, soothing his restlessnesses, rubbing away his coughs and shivers. When Arthur wakes, it will be to Merlin, and to warmth, and to affection. Arthur needs lots of affection, and deserves lots, too. Merlin is quite happy to give. Especially when it means Arthur in his arms like this, so trusting. Merlin presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead and soothes another sleeping fear. 


End file.
